


Beauty From Ashes

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Father/Son Incest, Feanorian OT8, Fix-It, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Reunion Sex, Shapeshifting, Sibling Incest, Silmarils
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: At the end of the First Age, Maedhros and Maglor head over the Blue Mountains with the Silmarils, wondering if there will ever be a way to recapture the third one.Then the Evening Star begins to fall....





	Beauty From Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uumuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/gifts).



> Written as a gift for uumuu. <3

* * *

The night was clear, crisp, and cold. The wind swept down in long clean sweeps over the Blue Mountains, and Maglor took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs. He slowly came to a halt and set down both his pack and Maedhros' at the summit of the mountain. 

As had become his custom, he turned to stare in longing at the Evening Star high above, though this time with two-thirds less of the longing he had once known. For the other two Silmarils were now with him, one in his own pack, one among Maedhros' things, safely wrapped in a dark cloth and sealed away from all eyes. They were precious beyond measure, beautiful beyond imagination, but their greatest value was in their power. At the right word, they could raise Beleriand up from the depths, or bring forth their lost brothers from the Halls of Mandos, if they had all three. 

Two was not enough. Maglor gazed up at the sky, pondering ways and means, but came up empty. The Silmaril might be safe from all evil, but it was also safe from them, until they devised how to reach it in the heavens. It was within sight, and there it would stay. 

But was he dreaming, or was the Silmaril growing larger before his very eyes? Maglor blinked, and rubbed a hand over his face, then looked up again. "No," he said, half to himself, half to Maedhros in the form of a fox, who pattered up just then. "It's definitely getting bigger." 

Smoothly, the fox transformed back into Maedhros, who took a moment to stare up at the star. "It's not getting bigger," he said, coming forward and wrapping an arm around Maglor's shoulders. "It's getting closer." 

Maglor looked up into Maedhros' face. "How?" he asked. "Why would Eärendil leave his appointed pathway?" 

Maedhros shook his head, bending to kiss Maglor's forehead. "I don't know," he said, frowning. "We shall wait here and see. Our Doom, maybe, approaches." 

Had the Valar, perhaps, sent Eärendil to complete yet another task they could not be bothered with? The two of them at the last of their strength would be far easier to kill than Ancalagon the Black. Maglor's heart began to beat fast in his breast, but he tried to calm himself, taking slow breaths, one after the other. "Did you see anything of importance in your wanderings today?" 

"Nothing," Maedhros said. "The Sea rises behind us, but it will not come into Eriador. We will be safe in the eastern lands. I did not even see any refugees. We are the last to cross." He turned his eyes back to the rapidly growing star, and Maglor followed his example. They stared in silence as it grew closer and closer, until at last they could see the form of the ship itself. 

The one standing at the helm was decidedly not golden-haired Eärendil, but a face and form far more familiar and beloved, a face that broke into smiles at the sight of them. Fëanor wore Eärendil's coronet on his head, and plain grey clothing, such as one would wear at home. 

"Father, father!" they cried out as one, and Maglor put out both arms, tears streaming down his face, as if he would take Fëanor into his embrace there and then without accounting for the air, glass, and metal between. By his side, Maedhros was sobbing with joy, his breath coming in gasps, holding Maglor close with his right arm, reaching out to Fëanor with his left hand, and smiling, smiling like Maedhros had never smiled so long as he had been called Maedhros. 

Vingilot settled down beside them on the summit. It was not a large ship, barely more than a single glass-enclosed room. The door slid back with a rasp of metal against metal, and Fëanor emerged, love shining in his eyes, the Silmaril on his brow. 

Maglor did not think, did not breathe before he was in Fëanor's arms, laughing and crying at the same time. Beside him, Maedhros clung to their father, face buried in his shoulder, too overcome to even speak. For a long moment they said nothing but murmured endearments, ancient and rich with meaning, did nothing but cling together in a swaying hold, joy beyond measure swelling through them all, so beautiful it almost hurt, so sweet it was sharper than steel. 

At last Maedhros raised his head. "How?" he rasped, voice rough. "How can you be here? You died, Father."

Fëanor shook his head. "No. I did not die." He took a deep breath. "I transformed. I shapeshifted." 

"Oh!" Maglor caught his breath in an exclamation of wonder. "You finally discovered your form!"

Long years ago in Valinor, each of the sons of Fëanor discovered that they could, when they willed it, transform into an animal, and back again when they wished to. This had been a trait passed down from both their grandfather Finwë and their grandmother Míriel, who could shift into a panther and a silver lynx, respectively. Over time all the children of Fëanor learned what form they could take: Maedhros became a fox, Maglor a skylark, Celegorm a grey wolf, Caranthir a brown bear, Curufin a red panda or firefox, and the twins both red-tailed hawks. But Fëanor never could take any other form, and after a time, concluded that the trait had passed him by. Indeed, he speculated that it skipped a generation, until little Celebrimbor turned out to be a silver-furred otter. 

"I became a Phoenix," Fëanor said. "In the upward rush of flame I was reborn, clinging to that form. But I was vulnerable, and could feel the darkness reaching out for me. I fled far to the south, settling at last on a high peak in the lands beyond these mountains. Some of the Great Eagles have their eyries there, and they cared for me, brought me food, and told me of what was passing in the world, as the years went by. I had no control over my form at first and could not change back. Time passed far too swiftly in that form, and the years flowed faster and faster as I grew and changed and burned and rose again."

"At last one morning I awoke, and the world was different," Fëanor continued, as Maedhros and Maglor listened intently. "A new star shone in the sky, and I knew it, I knew it to be mine. From that day forward I made progress at last, and under the light of that star I was renewed, filled with strength and purpose. And today I was ready at last to soar into the sky trailing fire in my wake, upwards, upwards beyond the air into the realms where the stars dance and where Eärendil plied his lonely craft. There I reclaimed my own, and turned my eyes back to Middle-earth, seeking you." He kissed them both on the forehead. "And now I have found you, my beloved ones, and my other two jewels with you." He released them both reluctantly, and they stepped back. 

Maglor was grinning. "And what did you do with Eärendil?" 

Fëanor raised both hands and made a shoving motion. "He'll be fine. Elwing will catch him. She saw me ascending and pursued as far as she could. Oh, I never saw such an angry seagull!" 

Maedhros laughed. "How I've missed you!" he exclaimed, reaching out for Fëanor again and brushing a light kiss over his lips. Fëanor pulled him close, whispering softly to him. 

"I'll get our things," Maglor said. "We shouldn't linger here." He stepped away and walked over to their packs, lifting both, checking them over to be sure they were securely fastened. 

When he turned back, Fëanor and Maedhros were just entering the small ship. Maedhros had to duck his head to pass through the door. Fëanor led him over to a low white bed at the back of the craft. "You should rest, my Nelyo," he said. "You too, Cáno." He took the packs from Maglor's hands and set them down on the floor of the ship. Then he removed the coronet with the Silmaril in it from his brow. "We must fly fast and far, in darkness and in quiet," he said, stuffing the coronet into Maglor's pack. The room instantly went dark, with only moonlight shining down on Fëanor. "Rest, my dearest ones," he added as Maglor settled down on the bed next to Maedhros. 

Maedhros pulled Maglor close and kissed him warmly. He was trembling all over with excitement and joy. Maglor felt much the same, and returned Maedhros' kiss fervently, sliding a hand down his body to feel his arousal, and pressing close so that Maedhros could feel his in turn. The last time they'd made love was in their camp after they'd sent all their followers away, as they prepared to take the Silmarils from Eonwë. Then they were full of desperation and despair. They thought it was going to be the last time, and every touch was a memory they would have to preserve forever. 

Now here they were in triumph, with all three Silmarils, the Oath fulfilled, and Fëanor returned. With a low hum of machinery the ship took flight, and Fëanor, at the helm, briefly turned to watch them kiss and caress each other, smiling fondly, and then turned back to his tasks, steering them up above the clouds and far to the South. 

Maglor pulled his own leather jerkin and undershirt off, then tugged at Maedhros', helping him get them off. Next came their boots, dusty and a bit muddy from the road. He set them aside and tackled Maedhros' trousers, pressing a kiss to the fabric over Maedhros' cock before he pulled them down and away. Maedhros moaned, low and relaxed, his eyes shutting, a blissful expression on his face. 

Making haste to discard the rest of his own clothing, Maglor sank back down on the bed beside Maedhros and pressed kisses everywhere, watching out of the corner of his eye as Maedhros gasped, moaned, and sighed in ecstasy. At last he took Maedhros' beautiful cock into his mouth, sucking on him avidly as Maedhros let his head fall back, crying out with no attempt at quiet. 

Absorbed in his task, Maglor only half registered footsteps behind him, and almost started when a hand came to rest quietly on his shoulder. "I've set the autopilot now," Fëanor said softly. "Let me do that." He was still fully dressed in that soft grey clothing. 

Maglor lifted his head and moved up to settle next to Maedhros again, passing a hand over his torso. Maedhros sat halfway up. "Kiss me first," he said, and Fëanor obeyed, diving down to kiss him hard, and not for nearly long enough, before kneeling swiftly between his legs and taking Maedhros' cock deep. 

Maedhros cried out again. "Oh father," he gasped. "Oh my love." 

Maglor watched them, now and then passing a hand over Fëanor's dark hair, or letting his fingers dance over Maedhros' skin, revelling in the joy of touching both of them. His own arousal lay heavy between his legs, and he dared not touch himself. 

It wasn't long before Maedhros cried out a final time, his hips thrusting upwards, body pulsing. Fëanor's throat worked as he swallowed once, twice, thrice, and Maedhros dropped back, limp, eyes closed, a dreamy expression on his face. When Fëanor looked up, the corner of his mouth was white with seed. Maglor sat up on the bed and drew Fëanor to him, kissing and licking Maedhros' essence away, then kissing his father far more deeply, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. 

"Get out of those clothes," he whispered, pulling away just a little bit. 

Fëanor smiled, licking his lips. "You've put on muscle over the years. There's little soft about you now, my songbird." 

Maglor smiled back, heart melting at Fëanor's adoration. "Only how I feel about you, and about us," he answered. 

Fëanor stood, quickly stripping, and then joined them on the bed, sliding in between Maedhros and Maglor, facing Maglor. Maedhros, still in the throes of relaxed bliss, raised his hand enough to caress Fëanor's back gently, but that was all. 

Maglor was too keyed up to wait any longer. He exchanged a swift look with Fëanor, and immediately took his cock in his hand, as Fëanor reached over and did the same for him. Memories of doing this hundreds of times over the years, in places as far-ranging as the deepest wilderness in the south of Aman, and Tirion's palace in the middle of a ball, all came back in a rush, and he rutted into Fëanor's hand like he was in the first blush of youth again. 

Fëanor's eyes fluttered shut. Maglor laid soft, gentle kisses on both of his father's eyelids, then bent down to kiss his mouth, their tongues twining together. All the time his hand kept up the firm, steady motion that he knew Fëanor loved best of all, even as he built and built toward his own peak, even as Fëanor touched him perfectly, even adding that little twist at the end he was so fond of. 

As he felt Fëanor start to pulse in his hand, ecstasy crashed over him like a wave. He could do nothing but let it take him, a final wordless gasp escaping his throat. His last sight before his eyes slid shut was Fëanor's face in transported bliss. Dimly he registered Fëanor coming, painting broad stripes against his thigh, and knew that he must be doing the same to Fëanor's stomach. 

He had only enough strength left to wrap an arm around Fëanor and tug him close, utterly happy and at peace. 

Some hours later, he woke gently. Maedhros still lay sleeping beside him, but Fëanor was back at the controls, dressed again in his plain grey clothing. "We're not far from our destination, Cáno," he said without turning around. 

"Where are we going?" Maglor pulled his trousers on and padded over to look out the window. 

"There is a remote land far to the south of the Blue Mountains, across a mighty desert. I am going to a green valley near a lake, beyond the southern mountains, where we may plan for the future and rest awhile." Fëanor pointed ahead and downwards, to what looked like a steep hidden valley, with a lake at the bottom of it. It was green and fair, with woods up the sides of the hills, and a long white sandy beach, perfect for a landing point. Best of all, there was no sign of civilisation of any kind. 

By the time Maglor roused Maedhros and they both got fully dressed, Fëanor was setting the ship down on the beach. They emerged into the warm air, the daylight bright around them. 

Fëanor came out last, wearing the coronet with the Silmaril in it and carrying the other two, wrapped in dark cloth. "Here," he said, and handed one to each of them. "They will not burn you. I have removed that problem." His face momentarily grew dark with anger. "They never should have burned you. Fëanáro and Fëanáro's kin can never lose their right to hold these jewels." 

Maedhros quickly pulled the dark cloth away and caught the Silmaril before it fell, smiling as it shone in his hand. Maglor carefully unwrapped his, holding it close with an awe akin to reverence. 

"Are you ready to bring your brothers back?" Fëanor asked, smiling as they both nodded. "Then let's begin." 

They formed a triangle on the beach a few feet apart, each one holding a Silmaril in his hand. Fëanor carefully pried his out of the coronet and dropped the metal on the ground. 

Fëanor began to speak, half-chanting, in Valarin, the polyphonic syllables making their ears buzz and eyes water. The Silmarils blazed forth, bright beyond bright, for a moment, and then Curufin stood dazed before them within the triangle, legs unsteady, naked. 

Maglor sprang forward to catch him, putting comforting arms around him as he tottered. "You're safe, Curvo," he whispered. "You're safe." 

Curufin's eyes were fixed on Fëanor. "Father," he whispered, voice rough with disuse. "Father." He sounded near to tears. 

Fëanor leaned forward and kissed him, handing his Silmaril to Maedhros, who shoved it in his pocket. Speaking so softly that even Maglor could not hear him, he whispered reassurance to Curufin, then took him by the hand and led him into the ship. 

Maedhros held out his hand. "They'll probably be a little while. Come, brother, let's sit in the shade and marvel over our good fortune, for never before has such beauty come from ashes."


End file.
